


Smells Like Home

by justasock_x



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Attempted Sexual Assault, Boys In Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Beta, Scent Kink, Scenting, blink and you miss it bloodkink, posessive!Geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:01:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25994131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justasock_x/pseuds/justasock_x
Summary: Geralt learns what it means to call someone his home.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 26
Kudos: 634





	Smells Like Home

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, first fanfic in a very long time. These boys are just so cute. Please leave comments or kudos! All of my knowledge comes from the TV show, other fics, and cursory Googling. All mistakes are my own.
> 
> TW for attempted sexual assault.

Roach liked Jasier. It was infuriating. Geralt could understand if the bard were quiet and mellow, like he was. Roach had always been a skittish horse - every Roach he’d ever had was wary of other people. The horses would grow used to his taciturn nature and solitary way of travel, and they would respond to his touch almost before he moved to guide them. He had a special bond with his horse, always had. Every Roach he’d ever put a saddle on had been treated well.

This Roach was going to get fat, Geralt thought with contempt. He wasn’t stupid, he had seen Jaskier offer her sugar cubes and apple cores when he thought Geralt wasn’t looking. Geralt allowed it, because it was actually easier for him to have Roach tolerate Jaskier, but he hadn’t intended for her to bond with him the way she so clearly had.

Jaskier, entirely engrossed in his current project, was murmuring to Roach while he braided her mane, Geralt busy cleaning and butchering the deer he’d caught for their dinner. His sharp senses picked up the rustling of leaves from the wind, Jaskier’s soft whispers to _his_ horse, the smell of honeysuckle and sunshine that always seemed to waft from Jaskier’s person. 

“He’s quite grumpy, isn’t he?” Jaskier was saying, combing some oil through Roach’s mane as he finished tying off the last braid with a gaudy blue ribbon. Geralt noticed it was the same color as the bard’s eyes, then promptly and deliberately pushed the thought away. “I think he’ll be happier once he eats. Heaven forbid a drowner get between a man and his dinner.” 

Geralt grunted to get Jaskier’s attention, who turned with only a mildly peeved look on his face. “Make yourself useful and get the fire going,” Geralt muttered, the deer in pieces around him. Jaskier stretched as he walked over, making the long, lean muscles of his body more defined as his back cracked and he let out a satisfied sigh. Geralt grit his teeth. “Stop fattening Roach up,” he added, standing and moving towards the treeline. “I’m going to wash my hands.”

He had never washed his hands after butchering a kill before Jaskier joined him. Hell, sometimes he’d just eat the meat raw and keep moving to stop himself from wasting time he could spend chasing the monsters that earned him his living. But Jaskier had delicate sensibilities, and he’d once refused to eat something Geralt had caught because he realized Geralt’s hands were filthy with dirt and monster blood. “I’m sure _you’ll_ survive whatever disease this will give us just fine,” he’d declared, eyes bright and cheeks flushed, “but _I_ certainly won’t.” He’d gone to bed hungry, and ever since, Geralt had made a point to wash his hands thoroughly in whatever body of water he could find.

It was just so the bard wouldn’t get weak and die on him, he told himself. It would be quite a hassle to deal with a starving Jaskier. He was insufferable when he was in his element, courts and galas and people complimenting his singing and his pretty face. When he was inconvenienced, he was the most dramatic and unsettling person Geralt had ever known. Every inconvenience was a catastrophe for Jaskier, and Geralt wasn’t sure when he had started actively trying to prevent inconveniences for Jaskier.

It would certainly be easier for Jaskier to give up on following him around, and Geralt could admit that at first he had tried everything to get the bard to go away. He had slept out of doors for almost two months straight, forcing Jaskier to adapt to making camp or to move on and find a village if he couldn’t handle it. Jaskier had gotten quite good at picking non-poisonous berries and herbs for their dinner and Geralt’s potions, and instead of withdrawing and nagging about the outdoors, he seemed to find it freeing.

“Look at the sky!” he’d exclaim as the sun began to set, as if it wasn’t the same sunset they’d seen every day for a week and a half. “It’s not,” Jaskier would argue when Geralt pointed this out. “Every day, the sun sets and paints a different, beautiful picture for the world, Geralt. Honestly, you never pay attention to anything!” Geralt decided not to point out that his mutations meant that he noticed _everything_. He knew by smell alone when Jaskier was angry, or aroused, or coming back from the bed of another.

It made his nose twitch, and he’d been studiously ignoring why that might be, chalking it up to the fact that it was an unfamiliar smell on his bard, who almost always smelled like honeysuckle and the fresh scent of sweetgrass on a warm summer day. Jaskier’s panic and his fear had a sour note, and Geralt attempted to keep it out of the pure, clean scent of his natural state. He hated to admit it, and probably would never tell another soul, but Jaskier’s scent was like rain to him, calming and clean, and he had started seeking it out after a hunt, when the monster’s blood was thick and cloying in his nose, splattered all over him.

Jaskier’s scent, clean and unblemished, would waft towards him as the bard rushed to meet him, and Geralt would suck great lungfuls of it into himself until he felt grounded again while Jaskier busied himself obliviously with removing Geralt’s armor, calling for a bath and some food to be sent to their room, sending the armor to be cleaned, and all of the other helpful things he’d started doing when Geralt came back from the chase, senses painfully sharp with potions and adrenaline. It was nice to not have to interact with people, letting Jaskier take care of the human side of his job.

He was good at it, Geralt had to admit. Jaskier was able to convince wary innkeepers to let a witcher stay in their rooms. He sang songs about Geralt’s heroics until his pockets were overflowing with coin, dazzled his lords and ladies with stories of Geralt’s bravery and indomitable nature in a fight, and never once asked for a thing in return except to remain at Geralt’s side and let him write “the greatest ballads on the whole Continent, Geralt, honestly, following you will keep coin in our pockets for years.” 

Geralt returned from washing his hands to find the fire crackling merrily, Jaskier pleased as punch when he saw Geralt’s nod of thanks. He was always doing that, completing a task and then staring at Geralt, waiting for a small sign of appreciation or approval. Geralt knew that Jaskier thrived on emotions, the bard was a livewire with too many thoughts and feelings inside him for any one person. Rather than speak, Geralt simply moved to the task at hand, preparing the meat for them and doling it out when it was done.

Jaskier finished his portion and wiped his hands on a handkerchief before sprawling out on his bedroll. “Look at the stars, Geralt, doesn’t it make you wonder what’s out there?” he said dreamily, hands pillowing his head as he stared up. “No,” Geralt answered, deadpan. “I know what’s out there, Jaskier. Drowners and kikimora and bruxae, all waiting to kill you.” Jaskier sat up, blue eyes wide. “But the vastness of the universe, Geralt!” he exclaimed, gesturing at the sky. “Doesn’t it make you feel...I don’t know, less alone?”

“I’m always alone,” he responded automatically. Jaskier frowned, a sharp note of hurt invading the clean scent Geralt was used to. “Oh. Right, of course. Witcher’s path and all that,” he muttered, flopping back down before rolling over onto his side, away from Geralt. The witcher sighed. “Jaskier,” he began, only to be interrupted. “No, no,” the bard exclaimed, laying still. “I understand, Geralt. Maybe I’ll head to Oxenfurt when we reach the next city. I haven’t been back in a season or so, and I imagine you’re sick of traveling companions.” His voice was light but his scent was never heavier than when he was talking about leaving Geralt.

Rather than respond, Geralt laid down in his own bedroll and began to attempt to meditate. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t seem to rest, ears pricked for the sound of Jaskier’s unsteady breathing and racing heart, a testament to the fact that he was still awake. They passed the night in silence, neither admitting that they were unable to sleep, until dawn broke sharp and bright over the horizon. 

Jaskier jumped up at first light, rolling his bedroll efficiently and then glancing at Geralt, who was already staring at the smoking embers of their fire from the night before. “I’m going to wash up in the river,” he announced before departing, a small bag in his hand that was filled with all of his oils and soaps and who knew what else. Geralt stood once Jaskier had moved out of sight and began to pack up camp. When Jaskier returned, hair damp from his bath and dark circles under his eyes, Geralt nodded towards the road and they made haste towards the next town, where there were rumors of a vukodlak in the forests nearby. 

Jaskier trailed behind Geralt and Roach as they entered the city, Geralt’s nose wrinkling at the influx of smell and sound that always used to give him a headache. Now, he focused on the familiar, clean scent of Jaskier and the threatening headache receded as though it had never been. Jaskier came up alongside him as Geralt dismounted, taking Roach’s reins and leading her to the stable by the inn. Jaskier was chattering a mile a minute about the city and the people and the sights while Geralt handed a few coins to a stableboy and informed him sternly that Roach would kick him if he tried anything funny with her. 

The boy promised the utmost care for Roach, and Geralt left her in his hands while leading them to the inn. When the door opened, Jaskier popped through and made a beeline to the innkeeper at the bar, wiping down the stained, scarred wood with a dirty rag. “Good morning good sir,” Jaskier chirped, propping himself up on a stool. “May we trouble you for a room for two nights? My dear, scary friend over there is here about your vukodlak problem, and we need a safe place to sleep!” 

The innkeeper laughed. “Boy, this ain’t a safe town, but give me some coin and we’ll get ya a room.” Jaskier handed over a couple coins and the innkeeper handed him a key. “Best stay under the radar, lad,” he added as he handed it over. “You’re just the type the boys here like to mess with.” Jaskier waved him off and giggled, hopping off the stool with the key in hand. “You won’t even know we’re here,” he promised, a lie if Geralt ever heard one. His lute case was strapped to his back, after all, and Jaskier never shied away from a captive audience. 

They made their way up the creaky stairs to the room they had rented. A worn tub sat near the hearth, and the single bed looked lumpy but better than the ground they’d been sleeping on. The sheets and blankets looked clean, at least, and Jaskier plopped down on the bed with his lute in his hands, already strumming and tuning and humming, muttering to himself and ignoring Geralt completely. Geralt, for his part, started a fire in the hearth and began sorting through his potions, deciding which ones he would need before starting to sharpen his silver sword. It was comfortable and easy, Jaskier’s incessant noise fading into the background as Geralt worked.

Geralt headed out of the inn late in the evening, after Jaskier had already headed downstairs and started singing for his supper. He made eye contact with the bard, nodding once before disappearing. He had work to do, and he knew Jaskier would (probably) be fine on his own in the inn for a bit while he did what he had to do. Jaskier continued strumming, warily eyeing the audience with the innkeeper’s warning echoing in the back of his head. What had the man meant by that? _You’re just the type the boys here like to mess with_. Yes, he was a bit diminutive, but he was strong and he had the finely crafted dagger Geralt had gifted him unexpectedly a few months back tucked into his boot. He’d be just fine.

Jaskier finished his set to raucous, drunken applause, bowing and collecting his coin before making his way to the bar. “An ale, please, good sir, and whatever you have for dinner,” he requested as he sat, setting a few coins down and tucking his lute away. The innkeeper stared at him for a moment before nodding, scooping up his coin, and meandering away. He returned a few minutes later with a steaming bowl of stew and a full tankard of ale, which he set down before leaning closer to Jaskier. “Head upstairs soon, boy. They’re looking at you.”

Jaskier glanced around himself in surprise, checking his surroundings but finding no one that stood out. “Thank you, sir,” he said, “I’ll just finish my stew and be out of your way. Can you send a bath up?” The innkeeper nodded, watching as Jaskier ate quickly, finishing his ale and wiping his mouth before hauling himself to his feet. He made his way up the stairs by the bar, checking over his shoulder every few steps. The innkeeper was probably a bit batty, he reasoned with himself as he opened the door to the room he and Geralt were sharing. The witcher hadn’t returned, but Jaskier wasn’t worried. Geralt didn’t like to be around too many people with his eyes black from poison. He hadn’t even wanted Jaskier to see it.

Once inside the room, he saw the steaming bath had already been filled, and he grinned and stripped himself naked before choosing his favorite scented oil and adding it to the bath. He sank into it, groaning quietly as his tense, sore muscles began to relax. He lathered himself up, taking his time, since he knew Geralt would just request a new bath when he got back from doing his witcherly things. His eyes were closed, his head resting back against the rim of the tub, when he heard the door creak. His eyes snapped open and his head whipped around.

“Geralt?” he asked hopefully, turning to see a stranger entering his room, broad shouldered and tall, with a small dagger in his hand. Oh. That was unfortunate. “We don’t have any coin for you to steal,” he added, shrinking back into the tub, acutely aware of his nakedness. “Not here for coin,” the man answered, voice gruff and thick with alcohol, staring unabashedly at Jaskier, small and vulnerable in his bath. 

“C’mere, boy, or I’ll slit your throat in that bathtub.”

The man gestured with his dagger for Jaskier to move, and so he had no choice but to stand, covering himself with his hand as he gingerly stepped out of the tub. “I have to say,” he said, reaching for one of the bath sheets, “my witcher friend is going to be mighty upset if you steal from us.” 

“Fuck you and your mutant friend,” the man growled, stalking towards Jaskier and yanking the bath sheet out of his hand. Jaskier startled, stepping back quickly as his heart rate picked up, blood pounding in his ears. He knew instinctively that the man wasn’t interested in valuables. _You’re just the type the boys here like to mess with_. But this was no boy, this was a full grown man, dark haired and whiskery with gray streaking through his beard and at his temples. He was solid, Jaskier could see that much, and though Jaskier had a dagger and some ability to defend himself, he was currently naked and wet, his dagger under the pillow across the small room, and he had no choice but to let his hands fall when the stranger demanded it.

Goosebumps prickled along his arms and shoulders as the stranger walked around him, humming to himself. Jaskier felt sick. The stranger gently dragged the sharp blade down Jaskier’s spine, causing him to shiver violently, the blade slipping and leaving a small scratch down the small of his back, blood welling to the surface and beginning slowly to drip down over his ass. It was a small cut, but the knife was sharp, and he could feel it tracing his lower back, his ass, his thighs, around to the front of his chest and up to his throat. “You’ll behave, right pretty boy? No funny business?” the man asked casually, loosening his breeches. 

Jaskier swallowed hard, watching as the man pulled his cock out, already hard and dripping at the tip. “Please don’t,” he blurted out, hands up. “Please, just...just go back downstairs, mate, I won’t say a word, I promise, I won’t.” The man growled, brandishing his dagger. “Shut _up_ , pretty boy, you’ve been using that mouth all fucking night, causing a ruckus, put it to good use. On your fucking knees.”

Jaskier’s mind started racing, looking for ways out, but he was well and truly trapped. He should’ve locked the door, but they had only had one key and Geralt had left it with Jaskier so he could get back into the room when he was done performing. He’d left it unlocked for _Geralt_ , he thought desperately, holding up his hands as he sank slowly to his knees. _Geralt, please hurry back_. 

* * *

Geralt had tracked the vukodlak to a small clearing with a pond. He had downed a potion, cut the thing’s head off, and was back on his way into the town as his eyes cleared and his black veins receded. It had been on the smaller side and injured, already weak. His bag was dripping vukodlak blood, but he stopped at the alderman’s, collected his coin and then turned Roach towards the inn. At least they’d be able to spend tomorrow restocking their supplies before heading out onto the road again. As he approached the inn, his nose twitched. Something was... _off._ Jaskier’s scent, usually so strong and unblemished, was pouring sour fear and acidic anger. Geralt urged Roach a bit faster, handed her off to a stable boy, and shouldered his way into the inn, ignoring the raucous crowd and taking the steps two at a time.

He smelled blood. Then he saw red.

Geralt entered through the door as silently as possible to a sight he didn’t think he’d ever forget in his long life. Jaskier, backed up against the tub and on his knees, staring up in horror at a hulking man who towered over him, cruel words leaving the man’s mouth as he stroked his cock. “Knew you’d fuckin’ want it, probably givin’ it up to that witcher whenever he fuckin’ wants, mutant whore” he was saying, voice slightly slurred from his drinking. Jaskier shook his head frantically, wide, panicked eyes meeting Geralt’s. Then, another scent, sharp and bitter - shame. Geralt frowned deeply, pulling his dagger out of his boot and approaching the oblivious man silently.

The man stopped talking when he felt a sharp blade at his throat. “You made my bard bleed,” Geralt said conversationally, digging the point of his dagger in slightly to watch the man’s blood run. The man started heaving in breaths, knowing he could not move without sealing his own fate. “Din’t mean anythin’ by it, witcher sir, honest,” he began babbling. Geralt pressed his blade in slightly deeper, teeth bared in a parody of a smile as the man fell silent. 

“Mutant whore?” Geralt mused, glancing at Jaskier. “Jaskier, are you a mutant whore?”

Jaskier startled at being addressed before he shook his head vigorously. “No, Geralt.” 

“Hmm. Our friend is confused, then.”

“I would say so.” 

Geralt grabbed the man by the back of his shirt, blade at the ready as he threw open the door to their room and shoved the man bodily out of it. “Don’t fucking come back. Tell your buddies that if they want my bard, they can go through me. Do you understand?” The man nodded vigorously, cock still out but softening, and hurried down the stairs, glancing back to make sure Geralt wasn’t following him as he tucked himself away.

Geralt watched him go and then closed the door, looking at Jaskier contemplatively. “Let me see your wound,” he said eventually, after they’d stared at each other in silence for a few minutes. Jaskier shook his head.

“It’s nothing, Geralt, just a nick from his knife. I’ll be fine.” He stood, covering himself again and turning to go through his pack, setting it on the bed and searching for clean clothing as Geralt’s eyes narrowed and focused on the blood that had dried on his back, down over the curve of his ass. His scent was still sour from fear and bitter from anger, and Geralt hated it.

Before Jaskier could move, Geralt had pressed up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder, bending him neatly at the waist so he could get a closer look. Jaskier squawked. “Ger _alt_ ! You can’t just bend a man over after he was almost assaulted, what is _wrong with you_?” Geralt ignored him, running his fingertips over the broken skin of Jaskier’s lower back, a low growl building in his chest. “He hurt you,” he said simply when Jaskier craned his neck to look back at him with a question in his eyes. 

Geralt realized the position they were in once his need to see the wound was sated. He was behind Jaskier, hand between his shoulder blades to hold him down, his other fingers resting lightly on the cut on the bard’s back. Jaskier was right, it was just a small nick, probably wouldn’t even scar, but Geralt couldn’t stop letting his fingers run over it until it reopened and began to drip again. “Geralt,” Jaskier managed, goosebumps pimpling his upper arms. “Please get off of me.” There was... _something_ in Jaskier’s voice that Geralt couldn’t parse. He released him and stepped back.

* * *

They didn’t talk about it. They left the following day, foregoing the second night despite losing out on the coin. Geralt wanted to bring it up, but he had never been good with words and every time he tried, Jaskier deflected, or started singing loudly, or, on one memorable occasion when Geralt had refused to drop it, started screaming until the birds in the trees around them had taken flight and Geralt had to concede or fight every monster Jaskier could draw with his voice alone. 

Another night, another inn, this one populated by a more genteel crowd, a village outside of Toussaint, near the shores of Seidhe Llygad. Jaskier was in his element, singing and dancing around, winking and flirting with anyone who looked at him too long while Geralt drank his ale in silence in the corner. He’d started making it a point to stick around Jaskier when he was performing. The night that he’d smelled Jaskier’s blood and panic and fear was seared into his memory, and he was determined that it wouldn’t happen again.

Jaskier, if he had noticed, hadn’t said anything to Geralt about it. “Brought you some dinner,” the bard announced as he appeared with a platter of smoked fish and hard, fresh bread. Geralt _hmm_ ed his thanks, picking up a fish by the tail and taking a bite. Jaskier rolled his eyes and grimaced, picking up one of the forks he’d brought with him and taking a bite of fish for himself, closing his eyes and groaning at the taste.

“No offense, Geralt,” he said merrily, “but roasted hare gets old after a while, you know?” 

Geralt ignored him, finishing his fish and his ale, nodding his thanks when a barmaid brought him another. She let her eyes linger on Jaskier, who was studiously ignoring her and eating his dinner. Interesting. Jaskier hadn’t smelled of anyone else since the inn where Geralt had found him terrified, wet, naked, on his knees in front of a stranger who wanted to hurt him. His grip on his ale tightened. Was the bard afraid? Flirting and fucking seemed to be such an integral part of his personality, it was strange to watch him valiantly ignore the pretty girl’s attempts at conversation. Eventually, she gave up after too many one word answers and stalked away. Geralt raised a brow, and Jaskier shrugged defensively.

“What?”

“You’re not interested in a comely redhead to warm your bed tonight? Since when?” 

“I’m not in the mood.”

“That’s odd. You always seem to be in the mood.”

Jaskier stared at him for a moment without speaking before pushing his stool back and standing. “I’m going to bed,” he said loudly, stalking off with his lute slung over his back. Geralt frowned. Had he said something wrong? He watched Jaskier’s tense back as the bard made his way up the stairs, then finished the platter of fish and bread, downed his ale, and stood as well. He dropped coins on the table for their meal and drink, and followed the bard upstairs. His scent was bitter, not clean and fresh as a summer day. 

When Geralt entered the room, Jaskier was in bed, back to the door. The door had been locked, which had become a habit for Jaskier since he’d been accosted. When Geralt had pointed out that he had to continually wake Jaskier to get into the room, Jaskier had shrugged and admitted he preferred to see Geralt after a hunt anyways. Geralt didn’t question it, but now he wondered if there was a different reason for Jaskier’s caution.

“I know you’re awake,” he said, standing at the foot of Jaskier’s bed after setting the key down on the nightstand. Jaskier ignored him. “Can you talk to me? You’re always talking. Say something.”

Jaskier sat up, eyes red-rimmed and flashing. “Fuck you, Geralt. Maybe I don’t want to have sex because the last time I was naked in a room with someone they were threatening to slit my throat if I didn’t suck their cock.” 

Geralt stepped back as if he were avoiding a blow. He hadn’t considered that Jaskier would be traumatized by the experience, but perhaps it should have occurred to him. Jaskier was sensitive - he fell in love every day, fell out of love just as often, carried torches and grudges with him like living things. But, Geralt reasoned, Jaskier also let things roll off of him. Missed connections, bread flung at him in less refined towns, Geralt’s own harshness, all seemed to just bounce off of the perpetually happy bard.

“I’m...sorry,” Geralt managed after Jaskier had been staring at him expectantly. “I didn’t expect…”

“No, I suspect not. I don’t feel safe, Geralt. I don’t feel safe if you aren’t here.” Jaskier looked down at the bedding, as if shamed by this admission. “I’ll keep you safe, Jaskier,” Geralt offered, staring intensely at the bard as if trying to puzzle him out. “You know that.”

“I do,” Jaskier agreed readily. “But you aren’t exactly going to be in the room when I’m naked and frolicking with the pretty barmaid.” He shrugged. “It’s all right. Less scorned cuckolds to chase me out of town, I guess.”

Jaskier’s wound had healed, and Geralt had been correct, it hadn’t even scarred. He hadn’t counted on the mental effects Jaskier would suffer. “I could be in the room,” he offered without thought. Jaskier’s eyes jerked up to his. “I think not,” he said stiffly, laying back down, all his movements showing his reluctance to continue this conversation. 

“Why not?” Geralt asked, unable to let it go. “If you feel safe when I’m with you, I’ll be with you.”

Jaskier didn’t answer. Geralt shrugged, stripped down to his smallclothes, and climbed into his side of the bed, closer to the door. His silver dagger was under his pillow, and he knew Jaskier’s was as well. The bard had become quite adept at protecting himself, especially since the inn. When Geralt came back to their camp, he’d often find Jaskier sharpening his own blade, or throwing his knife into trees to test his aim. 

“Why not?” he repeated after lying in silence next to Jaskier for some time.

“Why not _what_ , Geralt?” Jaskier asked, annoyed as he rolled onto his back to stare at the witcher.

“Why don’t you want me in the room?” Geralt clarified, staring at Jaskier. “It would solve your problem. You’d be safe, you’d be frolicking.”

“Geralt, I can’t explain to you how inappropriate or strange it would be for my very best friend to see me in such delicate positions.”

“I know you fuck men, bard. If that’s what you’re worried about, I don’t give a shit.” He ignored the _very best friend_ part for the moment.

Jaskier spluttered. “First of all, how do you even _know_ that? I’m quite discreet.”

“You haven’t been discreet a day in your life,” Geralt disagreed automatically, lips twitching. 

Jaskier could tell he was being teased, and he sat up and hit Geralt with his pillow. “Fuck _off_ ,” he groaned, laughing and bright eyed. The sourness had dissipated from his scent, leaving only the refreshing smell of sunshine and honeysuckle and sweetgrass to fill the room. Geralt sighed, breathing in the relaxing scent. He wasn’t quite sure when it had happened, but Jaskier’s pure, natural smell had become home to him. He knew he was welcome when he could smell the summer scent of Jaskier’s skin.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked, voice small, once they had settled and were laying side by side again. 

“Hm?” he answered, opening one golden eye to glance at Jaskier curiously. 

“Could I, um, I mean...well, that is - “

“Spit it out, bard.”

“Can you, like, hold me, maybe? I just...there was a really big guy down there, and he was really nice but I just don’t know if - “

“Come here, Jaskier.” Cutting off the bard’s rambling, Geralt held out an arm and Jaskier scrambled into the safety of his broad, scarred chest. He buried his face in Geralt’s shoulder, breaths a little shaky before he calmed down and dozed off. It was the fastest Jaskier had fallen asleep in quite a while, Geralt noted, and he sighed, closing his eyes and drifting off himself, the scent of sweet grass in his nose

* * *

Jaskier awoke slowly, more rested than he’d been in quite some time, and warmer, too. He started to stretch but realized he was quite immobilized against Geralt’s strong chest, his back pressed firmly into the witcher and Geralt’s face buried in his neck, breathing the deep and even breaths of sleep. His arm was an iron bar across Jaskier’s waist, keeping him pinned in place. Jaskier would’ve felt a stirring of panic if it were any man but Geralt. As it was, he simply relaxed back against the witcher, scooting a bit closer to soak up some of that furnace-heat that Geralt always seemed to put off, no matter how cold it was. They’d lain together like this before, when they got caught in particularly bad weather, Geralt a warming heater at his back as Jaskier shivered miserably through the night, but he’d never been held by Geralt simply for comfort.

It was nice, he realized, breathing evenly and forcing himself to stay still and silent. Geralt was firm and strong, but his hold was gentle, his breath soothing as it ruffled Jaskier’s hair at the nape of his neck. People viewed Geralt as violent, a mindless monster created to hunt monsters, but Jaskier had watched Geralt clumsily accept a buttercup from a young peasant girl, seek his Child Surprise with intensity when he realized she was in danger, waive payment from villages too poor to afford it. Geralt was a good man, and he made Jaskier feel safe.

Yes, he was attractive to look at, but that was beside the point as far as Jaskier was concerned. No one had ever been as kind to Jaskier as Geralt had, even if he appeared coarse and standoffish. Jaskier had traveled with Geralt for a long time, had learned to read his grunts and microexpressions in order to suss out how he was feeling when the words wouldn’t come. Geralt appreciated Jaskier, despite his annoyance with some of the bard’s behavior. His eyes crinkled when Jaskier had a bath brought up when he returned from his contract. He teased Jaskier, and every time, it made Jaskier’s heart skip. Geralt had been so cold, so distant when they had first begun to travel together, that he could not lose sight of how far they’d come as friends.

Geralt stirred behind him, and pulled the bard closer to his chest as he blinked awake. His arms tightened and Jaskier gasped but didn’t protest. This was very new, Jaskier noted with a touch of hysteria, as he felt Geralt’s thick cock pressing insistently against his lower back. He stayed limp, let Geralt rouse himself enough to realize how they were entangled and release him. Instead, he heard a soft growl from behind him, and the arms relaxed a fraction but did not move.

“Good morning,” Geralt rumbled, voice still rough from sleep. Jaskier shivered.

“G-good morning, Geralt, was just going to pop out of bed and get some breakfast, yeah?” he babbled, starting to pull away. Geralt’s grip tightened.

“I don’t think so.” He sounded amused. Jaskier swallowed thickly.

“Um, Geralt, I don’t know if you noticed -”

“I notice more than you think, bard.”

Jaskier stiffened in his arms. “How so?”

“You’re aroused,” Geralt said, voice indiscernible. Jaskier wiggled, Geralt tightened his grip in response. “Stay _still_.”

“Geralt, I think I should leave.” Jaskier’s voice was higher than normal and Geralt growled and rolled them so that he was above Jaskier, sitting astride his hips with both of his wrists pinned by Geralt’s hands.

“Will you be quiet? Listen to me.” Jaskier’s eyes were wide, but he pressed his lips together and nodded obediently. “Thank you.”

Jaskier had no fear in his scent, so Geralt sat and studied his face for a moment. He really was a beautiful man, sharp jaw and cheeks, full mouth, bright, laughing eyes. He dressed well, sang and played the lute and the occasional piano, and he was probably the kindest, most genuine person Geralt had ever met. He knew, in order to do this right, he needed to find the words to say, and he needed to speak them plainly for once.

“I want you,” he said carefully, noticing how Jaskier’s heart rate skyrocketed at the admission. “Not as a friend or as a casual fuck, but as a lover.” He paused, releasing Jaskier’s wrists and rubbing them gently. He’d been careful, obviously, and Jaskier wouldn’t even have red marks from Geralt’s hands. Jaskier lay very still underneath him. “I’ve been thinking about what you said last night, that you don’t feel safe without me here. I’d be here, if you’d have me.”

Jaskier made as if to sit up, so Geralt moved off of him, returning to his side of the bed and watching the bard as he turned the admission over in his head, searching for words as he gathered the blankets around himself. Geralt’s chest clenched. Had he read things so wrong? Jaskier looked almost pained.

“I don’t...Geralt, I don’t want you to feel some sort of obligation to me. I know what I said last night, and I meant it, but I don’t want you to want me out of some, I don’t know,” he said, putting his face in his hands. “I guess I don’t want you to want me because you pity me.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said softly, reaching out slowly to take the bard’s hands into his own and pull them away from his face. “Have I ever given you the impression that I would be amenable to doing something I did not want to do?” 

Jaskier shook his head.

“Have I been cruel to you since we made amends?”

Jaskier shook his head, biting his lip. They rarely mentioned the mountain these days, not since Geralt had been half-drunk and spotted Jaskier entering a tavern he happened to be in. Their eyes had met, Geralt had moved, and he’d followed Jaskier out of the door and down towards the stables until he’d caught up. Geralt only half-remembered the apology, but for Jaskier, it had meant the world righting itself. He didn’t like to think about the mountain when he didn’t have to.

Geralt tipped his chin up with achingly gentle fingers. “Do you want me, Jaskier? The way I want you?” Silent, Jaskier nodded. “I need you to say it,” the witcher told him, shaking his head. “I need to hear it, Jaskier.”

“I want you. Yes, of course I want you, Geralt. How could I not?”

Geralt surged down to kiss Jaskier so hard it left them both breathless. “Can I have you, Jaskier? Will you let me touch you?”

  
Jaskier nodded, mouth slightly swollen and eyes blown wide. Geralt didn’t wait beyond the nod, just reached down to wrap a hand around both of them, already swollen and leaking in his big fist. The calluses on his hands from his swords dragged deliciously against the sensitive skin, and Jaskier arched under him, letting out a quiet whimper that sent something warm and liquid curling in Geralt’s gut, tightening in the base of his spine. “I think I’m going to fuck you, little songbird,” he crooned into Jaskier’s ear, burying his face in the hair at the bard’s temple to breathe in that sweet summer scent, tinged warm and spicy with lust.

“Yes, yes please,” Jaskier managed, fingers digging into Geralt’s strong shoulders, eyes glued to where they were pressed together, Geralt’s cock long and thick and Jaskier’s slender and curved. Geralt brought his hand away to lick at the drops of fluid on his fingertips, and Jaskier let out a small sound that almost seemed pained. “Oil, please Geralt. Please. I’ve been waiting for you forever.” 

Geralt growled, tearing himself away and ignoring Jaskier’s whine of protest to root around in his bag for his chamomile oil. Finding it, he turned back to the bed to the sight of Jaskier, legs spread while he touched himself lazily, tugging on himself as if it were an afterthought. Geralt’s mouth watered. He shoved his way between the bard’s thighs, Jaskier laughing as Geralt began to rub his cheek against the sensitive insides of the thighs he’d forced open. 

“You smell,” Geralt began, popping the cork on the bottle and drizzling some of the sweet smelling oil into his palm, making his fingers slippery with it, “so _fucking_ good, Jaskier, you have no idea.”

“Touch me, touch me, please,” Jaskier begged in response, ignoring Geralt’s flattery to try and shove his hips down to meet the Witcher as his hands inched closer to where they both wanted them. Geralt let his fingertips dance over the puckered skin of Jaskier’s hole, tracing the oil around and around until the muscle relaxed enough for him to slide the tip of a finger inside. Jaskier mewled, hips rocking, as Geralt’s long finger found a home inside of him, twisting to open him up for the Witcher’s cock. He was tight, so tight, and Geralt gingerly slid a second oil soaked finger inside when Jaskier started making high, breathy pleas for him to “hurry the fuck up, Geralt, honestly, I won’t break - _oh_!” 

A third finger was enough to satisfy him for a time, Geralt scissoring and stroking the soft inner walls of Jaskier’s body, making room for himself inside. He crooked his fingers, rubbing teasingly over the spot inside Jaskier that made the bard shout, thighs trembling as he tried to close them against the invading pleasure. Geralt toyed with the spot until there were tears in Jaskier’s eyes and the scent of the bard’s arousal was so thick in the room it was nearly choking him.

Geralt was proportionate though, long as well as thick, and he would not hurt his bard. He didn’t want this memory tainted by the sour smell of pain, so he slowly and methodically stretched Jaskier, the bard singing a quite impressive array of notes as he was prepared. Once four fingers slid smoothly in and out of the bard and Jaskier was limp and trembling, Geralt was satisfied. He removed his fingers, Jaskier making a small, wounded sound at the loss, and reached for the vial of oil again, slathering his hand with it before wrapping it around his cock.

He stroked himself slowly, torturously, to spread the oil as he watched Jaskier watch him. The bard was debauched - eyes heavy lidded and blown wide, cheeks and mouth flushed, lips wet and swollen from Geralt’s demanding kisses. He had never looked better. Geralt leaned over him and guided himself to the clench of the bard’s hole, pressing up against the muscle snugly and feeling it contract, trying to draw him inside. 

“Geralt, please, please I’m ready,” Jaskier babbled, hooking his knees over the Witcher’s waist and wriggling to try and impale himself. 

“Steady, Jaskier,” Geralt chastised, snagging his hips and pinning him in place. “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“I want it to hurt,” Jaskier shot back. “I want to feel you tomorrow when we leave, Geralt, please. I need it.” 

Growling, Geralt thrust, sheathing himself halfway before Jaskier’s body attempted to force him out, the bard letting out a soft, pained whine as he was split open. The scent of lust didn’t change, Geralt noted with satisfaction, if anything, it got stronger. So his bard liked a bit of pain. Geralt could work with that. He pulled back slightly before forcing himself back in, stopping only when he was pressed as close to Jaskier’s body as he could get without actually climbing inside of him.

“Oh,” Jaskier managed dreamily, eyes glazed. “You feel incredible.” Geralt concurred. Jaskier was tight and warm and slick with oil, desperate and ready for him. He’d never felt or smelled someone quite as intoxicating. Jaskier, fool that he was, didn’t fear the Witcher. He wanted him. Desperately. It was clear in his scent, in the way his hips started making mindless circles as he waited for Geralt to start fucking him properly. He was perfect. Geralt was going to keep him forever.

“You’re _mine_ ,” the Witcher snarled before starting a brutal pace of thrusting hips and hungry mouths meeting. “Yours,” Jaskier agreed breathlessly as he was thrust up the bed with the force of the Witcher’s lust. Geralt buried his face in the bard’s neck, breathing him in while he thrust deep, each movement of his body causing a resounding noise from Jaskier that Geralt drank in like the finest music. “Going to ruin you, bard, so that no one else will ever satisfy you but me.” Jasker cried out in agreement, meeting Geralt thrust for thrust as his body twisted under the bulk of the Witcher holding him captive.

Geralt hiked one of Jaskier’s legs over his shoulder, bending him near in half to kiss him messily as his thrusts spread up. “Oh, please,” the bard whined, fingers tangling in Geralt’s hair as he breathed against his mouth, “please touch me.” Geralt grinned sharply, canines nearly glinting in the firelight. “I don’t think so, little songbird,” he growled, hips picking up speed and slamming into Jaskier over and over. “I think you’ll come just from this, from me fucking you the way you need it.”

Jaskier cried out at the denial, and his hand went to reach for his own neglected cock, drooling prettily onto his abdomen. Geralt snagged his wrists again, pinning them above his head with one hand and using the other to spread Jaskier wider to better receive him. Jaskier’s back arched as Geralt’s cock found its target inside him, and he sang as the assault on his nerves reached a crescendo, Geralt growling into his ear about how pretty he was, how he was never going to let the bard out of his bed let alone out of his sight again. 

Jaskier came with a drawn out groan of Geralt’s name, streaking his chest and belly with white as he shuddered and spasmed around where the Witcher was still buried deep inside him. Geralt thrust hard through it, drawing out Jaskier’s pleasure until he was making quiet, hurt noises before he pulled out, cock still oil slick and iron hard. Jaskier laid limp, stretched out and nearly purring with satisfaction. Geralt smirked up at the dopey look on Jaskier’s face before beginning to lick him clean with strong, sure swipes of his tongue. When the bard was clean, Geralt hoisted him bodily onto his lap, sinking him back down onto his cock with a satisfied sigh.

Jaskier jerked, body twitching at the sudden intrusion as he brought his arms up to circle Geralt’s neck. “Witcher stamina?” he managed, bringing their mouths together. Their tongues tangled languidly for a few moments while Geralt rocked gently into Jaskier, mindful of his sensitivity. With slow, gentle thrusts and soft kisses and caresses, it didn’t take long for Jaskier’s cock to start thickening again, the bard’s eyes almost black with arousal as he began to use his strong thighs and calves to ride Geralt with intent.

Geralt’s head fell back against the pillow as he stared up at Jaskier above him, firelight catching in the chestnut of his hair and turning the tips gold, his skin glowing almost ethereal as his sweat caught the light. He was gorgeous, a vision taking his pleasure in a prostrate worshipper as Geralt let his hands rest on Jaskier’s hips, sliding one up and over his peaked nipples and to the back of his head to drag him down to kiss him senseless. 

Jaskier gasped into Geralt’s mouth as the new angle provided much needed friction. His cock, now dripping steadily and so sensitive it almost hurt, was rubbing up against the hard planes of Geralt’s abdomen as he was thrust into over and over, Geralt’s cock unerringly sliding over his prostate as he was rocked in the Witcher’s lap.Jaskier shuddered, eyes slipping closed as his head fell forward to rest against Geralt’s.

“That’s it, little songbird, just feel me,” Geralt encouraged, running a hand down Jaskier’s back soothingly. Jaskier let out a soft whimper when Geralt finally wrapped a hand around his cock, stroking firm but sure, thumbing at the head to spread the slickness dripping from his tip to ease the way. Geralt could feel his orgasm tightening his balls, the base of his mind, making his head fuzzy with the desire to just _take_. He began rocking his hips up to meet Jaskier’s steady bouncing, and growled low and quiet as he tightened his grip on the bard’s hip before releasing, filling Jaskier to the brim with hot seed.

Jaskier moaned brokenly, hips rolling as he found his second release, less furious than the first but no less intense. He gasped as Geralt continued to stroke him, batting the Witcher’s hands away and flopping uselessly on top of him, soaking up the comfort and warmth of Geralt under him. Geralt softened inside Jaskier as he stroked his hair and back, soothing him as his breath evened and their sweat cooled. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt murmured, jostling the bard slightly where he had started to doze, mouth parted against the side of Geralt’s throat. 

“Mm?” Jaskier answered, snuggling closer. 

“We need to clean up.” 

“Mm,” Jaskier agreed, blinking sleepily before settling back down. Geralt sighed, but as his cock slid from Jaskier’s warm body and his come began to drip down Jaskier’s thighs, Geralt just tightened his grip on his bard. His bard, who smelled like sunshine and honeysuckle and now, a hint of Geralt - of moss and leather and rich Earth. Geralt inhaled deeply and smirked, golden eyes sliding shut. He could get used to that smell.


End file.
